


Welcome to Freeside

by ShimmerVee



Series: O Ominous Spiritus! or, CecArcade Adventures [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossover Pairings, Doctor/Patient, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Examination, Meet-Cute, Pining, Robot Kink, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShimmerVee/pseuds/ShimmerVee
Summary: A new man came into town today.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> special thanx 2 max & armin for proofreading my self-indulgent garbage before i fling it into the abyss

He spluttered into Old Mormon Fort more pain than man.

The courier wore cracked glasses, a hat he’d plucked from a corpse, and a tattered, vibrant jumpsuit that – with the bloodstains – bore all three primary colours. Hideous and he knew it. He’d promised himself that if he survived his journey to the north, he would reward himself with new clothes.

He burst through the doors and practically crashed headfirst into a barricade. The monsters were long behind him, but he couldn’t stop running, not until he was secure behind walls. He couldn’t look up; he couldn’t afford to. Was he safe here? Was he even still whole? He had to reach deep within his well of strength to hold himself upright and keep himself from collapsing like a ragdoll at the feet of –

Feet? People. Huh. He hadn’t expected a place explicitly marked on his map as an “old fort” to hold any life.

He looked up to see a trio of mercenaries. They were armed to the eyebrows, and he had the distinct impression that more of his bones were broken than not. Even if he could reach behind him into his pocket, he knew they’d be empty. He wouldn’t be a match for them.

Oh, no. This was the end. He tried to form words of protest, or at the very least something poetic to go out with, but he gagged and threw up onto the dirt.

The guards did not attack him. Rather, they guided him to his feet and walked him off to the right-hand side of the camp.

Conversation and cooing words swirled around him, and he could barely see – his head had been swatted around a bit too much – but he had the feeling he wasn’t in danger anymore. It was comforting to have an entourage. It was less comforting to be bumped by a thickly-armored limb, especially with the vivid sensation of Deathclaw talons still fresh on his hide.

They guided the courier though a negligible wooden door. Even with his concussion, he could gather a few things from his change in surroundings. It was dimly-lit, for one. That wasn’t just his eyes. The contrast was like entering a cave, even like a vault – it felt sort of like returning home. For another, this place was not only inhabited, but cared for. Lanterns burned on tables, and it lacked the distinct smell of death and booze present in raiders’ dens. It was somebody’s apartment.

His eyes kept rolling around in his head. A stairway led to another floor, and at its foot stood a woman in a long white coat. She inched closer to him like how a child would approach a Bighorner.

“Hello,” she beckoned to him, and it took him a moment to process that this was the second time she’d said it. She had carefully-styled hair and the clearest skin he’d ever seen.

“He–” He coughed and hacked, ungraciously, doubling over almost to the ground again. One of the guards nudged a bucket with their foot so it was within range of being spat into. He hummed as a test. Much better. “Hello.”

“You can speak.” She walked closer, gestured for the guards to leave, and took something out of her breast pocket. “That’s very good. Can you consent to a medical treatment?”

“Yes. Medicine, yes. Absolutely yes.”

Her hand on his neck was cool – the first remotely cold thing he’d touched in what felt like centuries. A rush of something even colder caught him a bit off balance, and he blinked. It was not that he had never experienced a Stimpak before, but he avoided them whenever possible.

As the medicine took effect, a moan-like sigh escaped him. How embarrassing.

His senses suddenly became much clearer. In his peripherals he saw the doctor the side of the syringe as she set it on a desk. “Are you in any pain?”

He mustered a grin and looked into the doctor’s calm eyes. “From the needle? Oh, the opposite. The true opposite. It is the  _antithesis_  of Deathclaw bites. Thank you very much. Now…”

Her eyes widened at the mention of the species that had chased him here. “You survived Deathclaws? How?”

He gasped, smiled. If his hands could move freely, they would have spoken with him. “Well! I was warned well in advance that the road would be  _full_  of them, but I had my eyes on the prize, as it were. My goal was to just run past them and avoid conflict, embracing the possibility that I would be  _swarmed_  –”

“No, I believe you misunderstand. Any number of Deathclaws would be equally dangerous, as far as I’m concerned. I’m interested in precisely  _what_  you used to keep yourself alive.”

His stomach plunged. “Oh.”

“How did you do it? Oh, wait –” She looked over his shoulder, noticing something above the clamour of the camp that the courier could not tune into. “Hang on, I need to tend to them. Please, stick around.”

The courier tried to wave an oozing limb in her face for attention, but it barely got above his hip before his pained cry spoke for itself.

An exasperated flush was on her cheeks that reminded him – he thought – of his mother. Or,  _a_  mother. The concept of a mother? Her gaze was one of someone who had much to oversee.

“One of our researchers is stationed at the back of the camp,” she said quickly. “Please convey any helpful information to him. You’d be doing all of us a great service. He can patch you up, too,” she added. And she dashed out the door without closing it behind her.

Okay. Researcher at the back of the camp. His legs could carry him this far to reach his sanctuary; he could convince them to go a little further.

The camp was modest, but crowded. It appeared to be a makeshift cross between a hospital and a refugee camp. Middle-aged people in long coats were outnumbered by infirmed. There were cots and benches, some with people sleeping on them, some under them. A ragged family sat around a small pile of stones, deep in a conversation that sounded strategic. A man in his late sixties held himself in his arms by the shade of a tent. Several children were crying.

The courier knew the living conditions in the wasteland left a lot to be desired, but on his travels he had not seen a more desolate place than here.

Though every part of his body except for his head was out of commission, the courier managed to shamble into the tent along the back wall of the fort. He was probably in a lot of pain, but he no longer cared about what happened to him today, about the road behind or before him. The horrors of the day had been pushed aside. If what he learned on his travels could help at least on person in this place, he’d be satisfied.

The doctor who’d treated him had asked for useful information. That would be his delivery for today.

He entered the tent. His eyes readjusted to the shade, and before him sat the researcher.

His hair was the closest to perfect he’d seen in this life. A silken slice of sun. He had a close shave – recent, but not from that morning. The courier was suddenly acutely, shamefully aware of his own glasses when he saw that the doctor’s didn’t have a scratch on them, and he thought, if this person hadn’t been wearing a white coat and glasses, he would have looked like a perfectly average, albeit incredibly handsome, Mojave citizen. Nothing about him screamed that he’d studied medicine for his whole life. He had broad shoulders – maybe he’d worked in construction before this.

The blond nodded noncommittally. Whatever warm doctoral greeting the courier could have expected, he instead received, “S’up?”

“Um…” The courier raised a limp hand. “I’m…arm.”

His subconscious berated him. Had he never spoken to civilized people before today? This was beyond embarrassing. Foolish, idiotic, awful. A whole script of indignity unfurled in his aching brain like a pre-war typewriter.

“Oh, I’m not a doctor.”

The man read the courier’s dejected expression and kept going. “Well, not…traditionally. Medical services usually aren’t a thing I provide.”

He swallowed. “Ah, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Usually! Usually, I don’t. But I can fix you. I can handle it.” He flailed into action but then hesitated. His voice was painfully self-conscious. “Um. Did you… _try_  with any of the other doctors?”

“I already saw someone and was directed to you.” He swallowed. “I’m supposed to speak with you. About research.”

His brow ruffled. “Julie sent you here, didn’t she? Right, say no more, sit down.”

The courier fell into the stool. Adjusting his posture made him feel like some microscopic person was cooking popped maize between the columns of his spine. He grunted but held his grip on a polite smile while the doctor prepared a section of his cluttered desk. He took out a lump of cotton, a bundle of Stimpaks, several metallic  _things_ , and a series of potted plants.

“Could you roll your sleeves up, please?”

The courier contemplated one arm, then the other. With a growl of effort, he tore the sleeve of the hideous jumpsuit clear off.

The doctor blinked. “Or…that works, too.” A smirk. “How did that feel?”

He grimaced up at him. “Doctor, I hope you were impressed by that, because I surely tore whatever was keeping my other arm from falling to shreds.”

“That’s biologically impossible, but sit tight. I’ll take care of it.”

They now sat across from each other. The desk was more narrow than it had initially seemed, especially with the courier’s arms resting across it. In what had to have been a display of superior grace and tact, the doctor started by cautiously cutting away the other sleeve, alternating between metal tools. Scissors, scalpels, some tiny pinching things he didn’t know the name for – the courier had no interest in watching his own wounds get exposed, so he watched the doctor’s eyes instead. There was a calmness in them that muted the thoughts behind. Moss growing over ice.

At some point while one was cutting the other’s clothes off, it was decided that they should no longer be strangers.

“I’m Arcade,” said the doctor suddenly. “Arcade Gannon.  _Doctor_  Arcade Gannon, I guess, but there’s no degree on any of these walls, you’ll notice. Would’ve slipped right off the tent fabric anyway.” He smiled to himself. “That was Julie Farkas you spoke to earlier. Since she surely didn’t say this herself, pardon our mess. We’re busy today.”

A smile wiggled its way onto the courier’s mouth. “Cecil. The name’s Cecil, but ’round these parts I’m called –” Here, he pointed his fingers in the approximate shape of two guns. “Sizzle.”

Arcade’s eyes laughed behind his glasses. “Well.”

“Wasteland names.”

“I can’t say that it doesn’t suit you.”

The courier’s heart did a brief acrobatic routine. Arcade’s inscrutable, beautiful face turned away for a moment, so Cecil responded to his back. All he could manage was a spectral whimper of “Oh…really?”

When he turned back around, Arcade had a snapped-off branch of a spiny, green plant. He squeezed a viscous sap onto Cecil’s arm. “You’ve got a sunburn too.”

He tried, truly, to stay still, but the stuff was stronger than expected and it stung his open cuts. Cecil’s arm thrashed and knocked a few Stimpaks off the desk.

“Ah, hell. _Mea culpa_.”

His arm throbbed. He felt the back of his head tingle and feared the doctor had begun chanting an incantation. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh. Sorry. Literally, it means ‘my fault.’” Arcade tensed. “I didn’t learn it from the Legion, if that’s what you’re about to –”

“Oh, no,  _no_!” Cecil raised his palms. “Who? What? I make it a point to not listen to a word they say. Couldn’t even tell you what language they speak!”

Arcade smirked, a bit sadly.

“So, where  _did_  you learn it?”

“It’s a dead language – long dead, since millennia before the bombs fell. But I’m a bit of a history buff.”

“History is  _so_  fascinating,” he gushed. “I love language. And dead things.” In his giddiness it was a miracle he didn’t add “buff things” to the list.

For several minutes it seemed their conversation had lulled to a stop. Arcade, with his lightly calloused hand now more carefully tending to the courier’s bare arm, was the one to pick it up again.

“I don’t normally talk to people.”

And Cecil, who did normally talk to people, said, “That’s odd. But fine! It’s perfectly fine.”

“Julie only makes me talk to people when there’s information she thinks I need to hear.” Arcade arced a brow at him. “So, what brings you into our offices today?”

Cecil’s mood swam downwards as he remembered his conversation with Dr. Farkas. “There were Deathclaws and I ran. That’s really all. I dropped what I was carrying and ran from them.” He scoffed. “The only significant tip I have for you is travel light.”

Arcade stared through Cecil for a moment. “Now, that, if you don’t mind my saying, is pretty odd. I see people pass through here with more junk than appendages.” This got a chuckle from Cecil. “No, I know there’s more to you. What’s your story?”

Cecil barely contained his smile. Finally –  _finally_  – someone was asking him for a story. Though his long-term memory was a cloud of smog, he somehow felt that this was what he was meant to do. Not necessarily telling  _his_  story, but  _a_  story. The concept of a story.

“Well.”

So Cecil told Arcade – in details nobody else in the wasteland had time for – his purpose for adventuring. There was a man in a checkered coat who had betrayed him, a charming robot who had saved him, an elderly doctor (“doc,” he’d insisted) who had released him back into society, and a persistent aching in his head that kept him from remembering much else. There were few things that Cecil knew for sure about his reality. The doc had informally diagnosed him with “a touch of the weirdness,” whatever that meant. Cecil took it to be a comment towards his demeanor.

A town had taken him in for a few days – partly, Cecil believed, out of guilt for being the town site his unconscious body was found on. They taught him how to hold a gun straight, but since he couldn’t quite get a handle on actually firing it, he talked a vendor into taking it off his hands, and it was then he realized his natural gift for persuasion.

The doc had addressed him as “courier.” He knew that there was a package he had to deliver. Every day he tried a new angle in finding out what it was. Yesterday the package was interpreted to be a pile of medical supplies he’d given to some prospectors. A few days before that, he had delivered a settlement to safety from a scourge of bandits. He had heard from one of the townsfolk that there was a town called “New Vegas” – a city, rather. A haven. A patchwork utopia where the richest and most extravagant of people spent their time and caps.

He had heard that it was dangerous. All first and secondhand testimonials concluded that Vegas was a treacherous place. You could lose your life’s savings in a heartbeat, trade your sobriety for a song. But he had also heard that anybody who was anybody had at least  _been_  there.

At his heart, Cecil was stylish, and he followed his heart in all things. He was heading north to find the man in the checkered coat not for revenge, nor for answers, but for the glamour of it all. He wanted that suit if it was the last thing he wore.

The further north he went, the clearer it became that he was not equipped for this journey. The road was dangerous and littered with corpses. He committed to holding on to his caps for Vegas, should he ever get there. He had gotten this far with a combination of wits, right hooks, and whatever he could find along the road. He rubbed alcohol into his cuts whenever he found a break and kept his energy up with what he could shake from old soda vending machines. But the most important thing, he had learned, was to run from all confrontations that he could not win. Cecil kept his eyes on the prize, as it was.

“But ah, that’s all I can report on. That brings us to today. To this moment. To your office in this fort.” Cecil’s finger traced circles on the desk that only he could see. “And the adventure will continue as soon as I’m back on my feet.”

Arcade seemed away in a dream, almost criminally peaceful. When Cecil’s voice trailed off to an ending, he blinked slowly and slid back into his acerbic persona. “Well. Alcohol and sugar water doesn’t work for everyone, but I’m glad it worked for you.”

“I hear it flows through Vegas like sap through trees? Those were my own words, not, ah, anybody else’s.”

“Something like that. I never saw the appeal of it, personally. But kudos to you for persevering.”

Cecil squinted through the cracks in his glasses at the horizon. Though the sky was bright, he knew in a few hours the tower that had been his North Star for the past week would flare to life. It seemed to loom overhead, taunting him with possibilities and secrets.

“I need to get in,” he said aloud. “What time do they open?”

Arcade had begun to put his curious medical supplies away. “You’ve got a ways to go, I’m afraid. This is Freeside. Formerly called Fremont. Hardly anyone calls it that anymore, or even knows that’s the original name, but they can’t be blamed.” He huffed wistfully. “That’s history for you.”

“Dammit,” Cecil said. “It’s still so far away, but I swear it’s like I can reach out and…”

He raised his fingers as if to clasp the tower, haunting the skyline like a moon in the daytime.

“But this isn’t even Vegas,” he lamented. “Ah, the work never ends.”

“I suppose so. If you ask me, it’s more about the journey.” He smiled. “ _Ad astra per aspera._ This journey is a fairly dangerous one.”

“More dangerous than those beasts on the roads?”

Arcade shrugged. “The vice seeps out into Freeside, and it’s not all sap and sugar. You could hire a bodyguard…but…”

Cecil’s gaze wandered down the doctor’s arms. Beneath his coat sleeve was a modest amount of muscle. Cecil’s breathing hitched lightly.

His eyes stopped travelling when Arcade shifted out of his seat. “Well, that’s about it.” He patted Cecil softly on the shoulder, just once. “You’re ready for the road.”

The touch filled him with electricity, and the words were out of his face before he could weigh them. “Why don’t you come with me?”

At this, the doctor’s eyes flickered across the camp to his work and back to Cecil in a fit of anxiety. Emotions twisted his face from worry to confusion to something resembling anger, and finally relaxed into a cool, measured frustration, all in a manner of heartbeats.

“No offence intended,” he said, “but why should I go  _anywhere_  with you?”

There were any number of responses the courier could have picked. He wasn’t nearly as world-weary and studious as this man was. And though the pain had all but faded, the memory of the Deathclaws had not. Better healing would be good. In a practical sense, Arcade's presence in his life was invaluable.

But Cecil followed his heart in all things.

He propped his chin up, leaned forward, and batted his eyelashes. “I need a good-looking doctor to help take care of me in the big, bad wasteland.”

A piece of Cecil feared Arcade would make fun of his advance. The other man did not laugh, but after a moment, that laughing gaze bubbled back onto his features.

“Overt flirtation will get you everywhere, you know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some discussion of Trauma in this chapter but it's nothing too heavy. Once again, Thanks 2 Arm & Max !!!

Arcade was in no hurry. Maybe it was because Cecil’s heart and mind raced like they were full of bees whenever he thought back to their first meeting where he _touched his shoulder oh my God_ , but whenever he looked at Arcade, he feared that he was rushing into…something. It seemed like everything Arcade did was deliberate and slow. Too slow. Cecil had to keep himself from checking behind his shoulder every few seconds to make sure he was still there.

He had needed to gather a few of his material possessions before heading off on their journey. He didn’t want to put them at risk by bringing something experimental with them – “The last thing we need to be worried about in a pinch is whether agave can reduce swelling,” he’d quipped – so he’d searched through some drawers and boxes and emerged from the tent with a bouquet of fresh Stimpaks. He’d flashed them at Cecil like he was showing off a hand of cards, then tucked them in his coat pocket, letting everything else in the research tent become someone else’s problem. It dawned on Cecil that the Followers were fans of recycling.

He had lingered even after getting his things. His head occasionally nodded in one direction or the other, almost as if he was listening for someone calling his name to say their goodbyes.

No one did.

So Arcade and Cecil were now a team. Arcade was the first to wake every morning, and he always greeted him with something half-hearted about it being a new day to make differences and discoveries, whichever came first. Cecil would grin and nod at this, hoping secretly that the day would present him with an opportunity to make the doctor proud. He let Cecil lead the way and hung back in case anybody tried to get the drop on them. The doctor could handle himself well enough for the both of them. Cecil felt undeniably more secure – if more self-conscious – with him at his back.

Freeside was a ramshackle, hopeless place. By daylight, beggars of every age scoured the streets for nourishment and dropped caps. The people were stressed to make ends meet, and they coped with this however they could. The night air was peppered with screams and shattering bottles.

Try as its citizens did, nothing was distinguished about it. Had it not stood in the shadow of the casinos, Freeside would have been just another poor settlement, a town in the middle of nothing and nowhere. And it did not “stand” at all – if anything, the decaying homes and walls reinforced by garbage gave the impression that the town was kneeling, prostrate before Vegas. The presence of those neon towers on the other side of the armed gates made it feel all the more oppressive.

Everyone in Freeside seemed to know his companion by name. They slurred hellos at Arcade, who replied with guarded, polite nods.

“Are you a local yourself?” Cecil had asked him early on. He stuck out against the backdrop of this town, unassimilated, radiant among the dull.

“Well…no. I came here to work with the Followers.” He shrugged. “Came for the work, stayed for the lovely architecture.”

“Everybody on the street seems to know you,” he smiled.

“We see a lot of each other. When they aren’t on the street, they’re on a cot.” His mouth closed on the topic. Silence fell upon them for a long while.

It often seemed like Arcade was bored. There was much that needed to be done in Freeside by way of easing tensions between local factions and helping money flow, but Cecil wished – for both their sakes – that they could work faster, and that Cecil would have more opportunities to make Arcade proud to be there. True, his end goal was shallow, but Arcade had said the journey would be greater than the destination. He had expectations. Vegas wasn’t going anywhere, and surely that checkered suit wasn’t either, but Cecil worried that if Arcade wasn’t impressed by how he chose to spend their time, he wouldn’t stick around long enough to see him wear it.

There was sometimes a tense, confused air between them that Cecil did his best to shake. In between errands, he caught him looking at his uneven vault suit sleeves in an almost contemplative manner. “You heal nicely,” he’d said, once and only once.

Tonight marked the end of one of their most challenging tasks. It had been, in Cecil’s opinion, a great example of a dirty job in need of someone to do it. He held the door to the Atomic Wrangler open for Arcade.

Folks in Freeside, he knew from the bottom of his heart, did not appreciate a party the same walk folks on the New Vegas Strip did. That was one area that the combined power of his gab and Arcade’s education could not change, but he’d be damned before he stopped trying.

“Next round is on me, fellows,” Cecil declared to the handful of Wrangler patrons. Several sets of drunken eyes looked up at him. Among the few who responded with any liveliness was Francine Garret, co-owner and bartender.

“Hey, caps upfront,” she barked, diving straight into business mode. “We don’t do tabs here.”

“Right, yes.” Cecil slid some caps across the bar and ordered a bottle, plopping into the nearest stool. Arcade lingered as usual.

It was a typical evening. A collection of gamblers huddled near the roulette table at the back. A man with deep brown skin was murmuring honey-coated nothings to someone in the corner. At the end of the bar, contemplating a shot of something opaque, sat a grizzled ghoul by the name of Beatrix Russel. A former mercenary for the Followers, she now made permanent residence here as an escort by way of a contract Cecil helped write up. She dressed her face up in a lipless sneer. “Howdy, Arcade.”

He nodded towards her. “Evening, Beatrix.” Briefly his eyes looked from her hat to her heels and rested on the chains around her neck. His eyes snapped away to faux-casually look around the room. “Nice, ah, ‘digs’ you’ve got here.” 

She scoffed. “I know just as well as you do none of this catches your eye, honey.” She did the shot, exhaled, and turned her face to the ceiling in religious jubilance. “Send my regards to the shithole.” 

Cecil had grown accustomed to the way Arcade muttered below his breath. “We miss you _horribly_ , Beatrix; it’s just not the same without you.”

The other Garret sibling was polishing a glass – only succeeding in changing the direction of the smudges; Freeside wasn’t the cleanest place in the wastes, and as long as water was so valuable a commodity, that was the way it was likely to remain. He nodded at Cecil. “So, got any news for me?”

He took a deep sip from his glass. “Ah, now, Mister Garret – may I call you Todd?” 

“My name’s James actually, but with the work you’ve been doing for us lately, shit, call me anything you want.” 

“Mister Garret,” Cecil perched his chin upon his hand. “I’ve come to let you know that your third and final new employee is on his way here.”

“Oh.” Realization bloomed. “Oh! The robot? You’ve actually _found one_?”

“Mm- _hmmm_. Perfectly intact. It took a bit of reprogramming, as well as some crude test runs –” Arcade coughed pointedly. “Well, one test run. He is in perfect working order, we assure you.” 

A defensive mutter of “‘We’?” was drowned out by James’ enthusiasm. “Hot damn, I’ve been looking for one for years! F-for my customers, I mean,” he tossed out quickly. “I’m not into that kind of shit.”

“He is already programmed to respond to your commands,” Cecil grinned.

A blatant shudder passed through him. “Oh, my God. Imagine the possibilities!”

Arcade very conspicuously pulled up a seat next to Cecil. The screeching friction ended that line of discussion. “Did you come to an agreement on payment yet?” 

“Payment, _yes_ ,” James jutted a finger at Cecil. “You’re getting double for your trouble, friend.” 

He winked. “Well, I’m sure I don’t deserve _double_. I’m just doing my civic duty.” 

“Civic? What you’re doing is saintly! Enjoy that bonus, now. Well,” he faked a huge yawn and patted his shoulder on the shoulder. “I’m taking off. Keep an eye out for rabble-rousers.” 

“Always do,” Francine sighed. 

Cecil turned his attention to Arcade – something he relished in doing – and put on a playful smile. “What was that?” 

He was less amused. “Do you have to talk about that?”

“Oh, what, Mister Fisto?”

“Ye – for God’s sake, don’t call it that.”

“But it’s what he responds to!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t be broadcasting your interactions with the – the robot populace like this. Leave the testing the merchandise to the buyers.”

“I thought it obvious that you were implicitly invited to that.”

His scoffed. “Well. You two were having such a good time, I would’ve hated to interfere.”

“Oh, _tell_ me you’re jealous of the robot, please; that would be adorable.”

Arcade glanced away. Cecil thought he saw sadness flash in his eyes. Oh, no. Was he actually jealous? How had he so callously broken the doctor’s heart?

He spoke after an eternity, and he didn’t sound hurt, just dead serious – enough to startle Cecil to the edge of his seat. “Okay, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here.”

“Here?”

“Between – you know, this may be the wrong place to be having this conversation.”

A pensive beat, then Cecil stood and relocated to the seat on the other side of Arcade. “Is this place better?”

He screwed up his face to fight off a smile. “You know full well what I meant by that.”

“Oh, Arcade,” Cecil swayed in his seat. “If this is the wrong place, perhaps we should save it for the bedroom.”

Arcade turned as white as his coat.

“The bar’s for paying customers only,” Francine called. “Hey, doc, you having anything?”

“Ah, a Rum and Nuka, please?” He wrapped an arm around himself. The thought he was pursuing seemed to have escaped him, or maybe he had let it get away. Either way, he settled back down.

Cecil continued, using a mite more sincerity this time. “I have made an executive decision to purchase a room for us tonight. A shared room. It’s about time we took our feet out of the gutter.” He smiled. “We’ve earned it.”

“Have we?”

He took out his cap purse and jingled it in front of him, mouthing the word, “ _bonus._ ”

Garret brought Arcade’s drink over; Cecil’s was half finished. Rolling his cap purse from hand to hand, Cecil began thinking out loud. “A few hundred a day, the admission fee’s two thousand… At this rate, we should see Vegas within the week.”

“The lights of Vegas up close, huh?” Francine said. “Got any business there, or you visiting for pleasure?”

“Business is my pleasure, Miss Garret,” he winked.

Arcade muttered something Cecil couldn’t quite make out, but the person on the other side of him laughed uproariously.

Beatrix put an elbow on the bar. “The Strip’s just as dangerous as these parts can be. Probably more, since NCR and the families’re breeding trouble over there. You gonna be okay, smoothie?”

Cecil took his hat off to run a hand through his hair. “I certainly hope so. But I’ve got support at my back. Isn’t that right, Arcade?”

He raised his glass in a noncommittal toast. “To your continued good health, and to toppling the hierarchy. _Salutaria_.”

“Ahh, that’s right,” Cecil looked down at his satchel where the invoice for his life-endangering courier assignment sat. “We’ll be meeting Mister House over there, too.”

Francine’s glare became flammable at the mention of his name. Cecil turned to Arcade for an explanation.

“The politics of Vegas are…pervasive. Business is a tight ship, especially on the Strip.”

“House can’t touch us here, but what more can he do to us, honestly? Besides ignore us.”

“Do you have a message for him?” Cecil suggested. “When we get to him, we will surely pass it along.”

“I’d like you to tell him where he can _stick it_ ,” Francine spat. “Shut us out here with no support, no branding, nothing.”

Arcade nodded and brought his glass to his lips. “Noted.”

“What’s he planning up in that tower, anyway,” Beatrix mused. “Saving all the good booze and women for himself, I bet.”

“Just a _stockpile_ of booze,” Cecil laughed.

“How else was he supposed to get through the war?” She smiled – a bit of an innerving look.

Francine leaned in Beatrix’s direction. “Do you think he’s like you?”

She leaned off the bar. “I beg your sweet pardon, boss?”

“Ghouly, I mean.”

“All the better for him; he can hold his liquor better.”

Cecil savoured the turn the energy of the room was taking – and felt a wave of even greater energy when Arcade’s face leaned closer to his. “What’s your theory?”

“Hm? I make it a point not to speculate anyone’s humanity. Ah, no offence, Beatrix.”

“None fuckin’ taken. I’m more human than that pig’s ever been.”

Arcade's eyes flashed. “I personally think he’s cybernetic. If I had to bet, I’d say he’s more robotic than flesh. His wealth keeps him preserved. He had access to _everything_ pre-war.”

“ _Oooh,_ that's good.” Cecil tapped his fingers on his knee. “I’ve got it. Would you like to know what I think he is?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“A _rancid bastard_.”

Beatrix slapped the bar and laughed. “That’s as accurate as any of us will get!”

“Someone oughta take him down a peg,” Francine said.

“Hey, yeah.” Beatrix snorted mid sentence. “Then he’d have to change the name of his casino to the Lucky Thirty- _Seven._ ”

He heard Arcade laugh. He heard a glass clink – or maybe the contact was more aggressive than that – as it returned to the bar. He heard very little after that. The walls of the Wrangler began to breathe and his vision grew black around the edges.

Cecil knew he had to leave the room – so he did. He wasn’t sure how. His body moved and got him off the stool and the next thing he knew he was behind the closed door of his and Arcade’s shared room.

His breathing tasted metallic. So few things he remembered from before Goodsprings, so few he recalled without some kind of a trigger. The weight of this memory made him wish he had stayed in the ground. He remembered enough to remember who he was, but his head – the cursed, limited thing between his shoulders – was echoing with one question.

_Whose-?_

“Hey.”

Arcade was in the room. Cecil stopped moving – he’d been staggering around in circles, trying to keep up with the rushing rotation of the Earth. The room swung, but Cecil tried to focus on the white and gold hues in front of him.

“What happened back there?” He approached Cecil palms-up with that practiced Followers harmlessness. “Did they say something that upset you? Did I?” 

“Yes. No.” Of course he hadn’t; how could he? “No, Arcade, no. Not – nothing to do with you.”

A hand brushed Cecil’s arm. “We don’t have to talk about it, but I am here. It was getting chaotic out there anyway. We can turn in, now.”

Cecil couldn’t have predicted the effect the simple action would have on him. Dizziness turned into a flurry of nausea. His throat burned. He wanted so badly to talk about it, but his traitorous brain could only remember so much. Even without that, how could he find the will to speak? Where were the words?

“That was my number,” he croaked. 

The wrinkles in Arcade’s forehead faded, and he knew. He looked through the glass into the softening eyes behind them and knew that Arcade had a fair idea of what happened when people were assigned numbers. 

Cecil did not.

Arcade kept his eyes on him while – almost imperceptibly, and with a touch befitting a doctor – guiding Cecil further into the room.

He bent his knees and found a bed beneath him. The air rushed back into his lungs, and he had just enough sense to take his glasses off before he burst into tears.

He remembered the sun baking his hatless scalp while a voice called out numbers one by one. He remembered sprinting across a crowded field, hysteria heavy in his chest. He remembered a gavel banging like a thundercrack, and he remembered hiding his face as he retreated. All of this, he remembered from the subtraction of one from thirty-eight.

But he did not remember where this was, how or even when it had happened to him. He didn’t know what he had done to end up on that list. And he had no idea who made the winning bid.

When his number was called, he’d tried to object, anxiety clogging his throat and dragging his words down, down, through the pits of his stomach, feeling as if his body was willing itself to die to avoid its fate – and when the lot was won, he ran. He ran until he was so lost that surely nobody could find him, until sweat poured from his pores and air was scraping through him. He ran and left the number behind him as well as he could, but he knew it would catch him. Eventually, he knew, it would.

He blubbered these sentiments with no air of shame.

Arcade asked no questions. Occasionally his lips would part, like a word of concern or assurance was about to leave them, but he let Cecil speak. He sat an inch away, left room for every word and whimper. He was in no hurry.

They remained by each other’s side for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this foray into making an actual AU and not just "Cecil Tries to Smooch the Doctor from New Vegas: Part 2"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it’s me, arcadefan1994, here with your periodic reminder that Arcade Gannon loves classical epics. Special thanks to Max for pointing out that I had written Arcade as autistic, which I didn’t originally intend but now fully embrace.

The distance between them had closed by morning.

Arcade lay still. The courier, exhausted, lay stiller. He really had earned this bed, so Arcade waited for him to get his use out of it.

They both lay on their side, one facing the other. By the light of dawn, his skin looked grey, like concrete. The tracks of his tears had dried, disappearing in the slope of his cheek. Their knees touched – Arcade couldn’t quite stretch out without his feet hanging over the edge, so he curled his body like a crescent moon while he watched over the courier.

He’d dreamed that his arms were around him, and he was puzzled to find that was not the case. This was as good of a time as any, Arcade’s brain decided, to review the parts of his body he’d already touched. Arms and legs and shoulders when he’d treated him on the day they’d met. Fingers with the exchanging of equipment. An elbow, once. A thigh when they had sat too close. Memories of last night were strung together by touches, clinical, requisite. However much he tried to focus on his known reality, the dream refused to fade. He saw the courier, and he now saw the possibility of reaching out and touching his cheek, vivid as a film.

Time trickled by. Sleep was almost something Arcade was nostalgic for. He wondered how Cecil could sleep on and on like this, like there wasn’t a thousand things to worry about in this haggard world. He wondered what the world behind the courier’s eyes was like, but he knew – if Time could be kind to them – Cecil would open up and draw him into it during their waking moments. He had only to wait and see.

These were the moments of peace that the epics talked about. The clamour of Freeside was muffled, and there was peace between them as the courier’s eyelids fluttered in sleep. Inevitably, that peace would give way to something ominous, but for now he was alone with something beautiful. Interesting? Novel. There were plenty of words for Cecil, but none he could quite decide on. He was awash in words as he looked at him, like he was lost in a poem. But this was not a poem. Arcade was neither reading nor speaking – oh, he _wished_ he would wake up soon; he was stuck here running away with himself – and there was no silence because he could hear the courier’s breathing, carefree and away while his body lay so close; and there was no peace because his mind rushed and rambled and spun possibilities like a narrator who just wouldn’t shut up shut up shut _up_ –

The courier stirred. They locked eyes. With him, the day started.

Cecil dragged himself into an upright position. He put a hand to his chest, looked down the length of his legs while he (clumsily, ineffectually, let me help you with that) checked his pulse. There was awe in his face as he realized he’d survived the night – then a twinge of something else when he remembered its events.

He kept his eyes on the courier while he shook his dreams off, retrieved his hat. He’d look to Arcade, and his lips would move and a syllable would escape him when he tried to speak, but the early morning hoarseness of his voice made him hesitate. After they’d freshened up, with his hand on the doorknob, the courier coughed brusquely and spoke over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

The day’s first vocalized thought. Before Arcade could form a reply, Cecil had opened the door, and they slid into business as usual.

Things between them weren’t quite the same after that night. His companion had tried to maintain his air of practiced oddity, but he stumbled through it. He couldn’t hold his gaze for very long, turning away with a pitiful smile when Arcade looked at him with too much intensity. It took him a while to hit his stride – he was a night person by all accounts – but he greeted Mr. Garret pleasantly as he returned their room key.

Arcade had lived in Freeside for…how long, now? And for all the times he’d gone back and forth between the Fort and the Atomic Wrangler, he could’ve counted James Garret’s smiles on one hand. Since Cecil’s arrival, he had run out of digits to count on.

This man could talk his way into an air-tight safe, Arcade was certain. His words had a kind of magic to them. One day he suspected he’d pick up a harmonica and start playing a tune that would send the rats marching single-file out of the city.

Arcade conceptualized his world through myths and facts. The former served no real use, but if anything, they entertained him. The latter helped him explain all that was physical; they ruled over his profession and therefore his place in this chaotic world. He knew the courier wasn’t truly some mythical figure from the kind of story that was considered ancient, even before the war – of course he wasn’t. He was just a wastelander. Of course Arcade could tell the difference between myths and facts, between poetry and science. Poetry was an escape. Science was all that was real, but it could explain only so much.

There was always more to discover, he knew. He had only to wait and see.

Something about the way the courier spoke so freely and earnestly made him want to speak, too, but he shared very little of his companion’s charm. But _oh_ , he wanted to speak. He wanted to share even just a _part_ of the ocean of words churning and frothing in his head. Though the disquiet was never so loud as it was that first morning – the morning and night that they both, slowly, recovered from, like a wound scabbing over – his thoughts sometimes went for a walk to the tip of his tongue and got him into trouble. Their visit to the local energy weapons depot had stirred up some particularly exciting memories.

“Memories of what?” the courier had asked.

He hesitated between clauses. “Of…hearing stories…about energy weapons.”

His head tilted to one side. “Do the Followers use many energy weapons?”

“No. Let’s keep moving.”

The satisfied him, until after a scuffle, when Arcade was blowing the steam off the barrel of his plasma pistol.

“Did you…buy that from the Silver Rush?”

“Oh, uh. Nope.”

“Did you steal it?”

The offence he took was half sincere. “What do you take me for?”

“Then where did you get it, Arcade?”

He’d called it a gift, which wasn’t untrue. He was able to distract him by making reference to the myths of Saint Nicholas and weaving a situation where he and Dr. Farkas were much better friends than they actually were.

The day they had met, they’d silently agreed that they would combine their skills to improve life in Freeside. Maybe beyond, if things worked out. If Time could be kind to them. Even though Vegas was a blight, Arcade believed this mysteriously unkillable courier could make a profound difference here. He couldn’t help but liken him to a messenger, a wandering bard, an epic hero. There was also the matter of the way in which he had asked him out; he had specifically made request of his medical skills. If Arcade could show Cecil ways to avoid getting his head lobbed off by a mutant’s backhand slap, he’d gladly do it.

Asked him out? Wait, that wasn’t right. He rewound a bit.

The courier – Cecil, his name was Cecil, though he choked on it whenever he tried to say it – had big ambitions, and he needed someone with more experience in this part of the land to help fulfill them. That was the long and short of it. That was what was factual about their relationship.

There.

Another fact of this world was that laws were unfair. By their virtue, laws were designed by those with no need for them. Wealth wasn’t distributed properly. Cecil and Arcade had spent the better part of these few weeks doing errands for locals that would improve, however subtly, the life of the everyman. Some days they were couriers, sometimes doctors, and sometimes mercenaries. Sometimes, in some lights, they resembled heroes, and Arcade smiled to himself.

All tasks had their own reward. Usually the reward was monetary, and when the payment amounted to a certain number of caps, Arcade was sure to count it as “thirty-five plus two” or “thirty-eight minus one” before passing it along to Cecil. With each errand, another good word was put in. A favour done became a favour owed. A light purse turned into a hefty one.

“…two…two thousand,” Cecil finished. His mouth stayed open in awe. “That’s enough to –”

“Pay for admission.”

The men were resting in an alley one evening. Cecil had been crouched on the curb to count their earnings. Arcade took his back off the wall and inhaled deeply.

“The sweet smell of charity?” Cecil asked.

“Since you were paid, that sort of defeats the point of ‘charity,’ but,” he paused to stretch his arms above his head. “Yes. You’ll find that good deeds literally do pay off.”

With irksome grace, he stood, brushed his knees off, and extended a hand to Arcade. “Will you go into Vegas with me?”

“What?”

His hand fell. “You said it was dangerous. I shouldn’t travel alone.”

“I meant with a _bodyguard_ , not a–!” His hand hovered over his chest, gesturing to the noun that would have ended his sentence. He sighed.

Cecil’s face was patient. “I’d rather you continue looking after me, please.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You ever been?”

“Inside the gate? No. The other Followers tend to the business there.”

“Well…why don’t we explore it together? It could be a sort of, um, leisurely getaway!”

Arcade laughed once and looked towards the gate. “Vegas is great, if you love terrible things and people. I never understood the appeal of giving money away to the rich.”

“That’s not the point. The…” He licked his lips. They were both staring towards the gate now. A corpse lay unclaimed next to a guard tower, and the horizon buzzed as casino lights began to wake up to push back the dusk.

“House is up there,” Cecil said, “Planning something that could hurt these innocent people. He already has. There is work that needs to be done, and I know you can help me do it. And I am _getting_ that jacket.”

Another hard laugh escaped him. “Will that be before or after you sever the head from the serpent that’s got itself wrapped around the whole state?”

“After.” His eyes twinkled. “Maybe. You’ll have to stay tuned and see.”

“Well I can’t _wait_ to hear about your exploits. Be sure to visit me in the old fort.”

Cecil’s voice became softer, and he extended his hand again. “Can’t we spend just one more evening together? Perhaps I can change your mind.”

He smirked affectionately. “You aren’t sick of me?”

“Most _definitely_ not.” Cecil returned the smirk and began walking towards the Wrangler. “And who better than you to have by my side, should I get sick of anything?”

They’d passed through these doors many times. Sometimes it was just for a nap. “Saving the town is tiring work, eh?” Mr. Garret had once remarked. And it honestly was. _Existing_ in this town was tiring in itself, and tiredness was a permanent part of Arcade’s being. They didn’t often share a bed, like they had on that night – Arcade usually opted to sit off to the side, under the pretense of guarding the door. Being too close to the courier – _Cecil_ – got his thoughts racing, and he wanted to avoid accidentally giving voice to them.

They booked their room, got a table, and ordered favours. The Followers of the Apocalypse did not deign to drink or use chems, but perhaps that only extended to the doctors who worked in addiction recovery. The Garretts were doing their best here, and they had recently become formal allies of the Followers. He knew – factually – that no amount of Nuka could erase the rum, but he was starting to reconcile that.

A comedian performed a routine; their table was just far enough off to one side that he didn’t direct any material at them, which was to Arcade’s liking. The paltry audience seemed to like it so much they didn’t pay attention to the two of them, either. They may as well have been alone in the room. But they weren’t. Factually.

A few drinks into the evening, Cecil cleared his throat three and a half times. It was a fact that when he cleared it more than twice, it was purposefully to get his attention. Arcade turned to his companion and left him in anticipation for an extra second before speaking. “Yes?”

“Well…I was just thinking.” He was tapping his heels together below his seat. “For all we’ve been through, I have divulged as much about myself to you as I could, safe for…” He tapped the side of his head. “That which is now obfuscated by brain damage.”

“Mhm.”

“And I would like…well, if you wouldn’t mind, of course.” His charismatic air was slipping, but he kept that cryptic, peaceful expression while his eyes rolled anxiously to the ceiling. “If you would…tell me about yourself.”

“I would.”

“Oh, you would?”

“I would mind.” He took a drink and turned away.

“You must have a lot of stories to tell.”

“Not a one.”

“Surely you’ve seen your fair share of…medical trauma. Not that I want you to talk about trauma! Just…you’ve seen _things_! You could flip one of those into a…a gripping tale.”

“None of it’s as exotic as barely scraping through a Deathclaw-infested quarry or walking off a bullet to the face, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m really quite boring. Really. You should’ve asked Julie to travel with you. She models her hair after one of the original Followers of the Apocalypse, you know.”

Cecil’s nostrils twitched as if he could smell his deflection. “Uh-huh.”

“See, I have this theory that she’s even _related_ to her. Of course, she never talks to me.” He was feeling the rum now. “Never tells me anything. Probably with good reason! I am, as I’ve said, dreadfully boring.”

That tranquil expression wavered. “I’m asking you because I care. Don’t put yourself down like that.”

His voice was gentle as lambs. That mythical something-or-other, that charm about him that made Arcade want to speak up – it was horribly enticing. And irritating.

A dam broke within him. “Oh, alright. I'm thirty-five years old, about six-one, natural blonde. I was born in N…” He caught himself and pushed on through. “…west. Of here. I was an only child and spent most of my time with my mother. My father died when I was young and I never got over it. Oh,” he raised a finger. “And I like medicine and reading books about failed Pre-War socioeconomic policies. And right now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, ‘Why hasn’t some lucky man scooped this bachelor off his feet?’”

“Um –”

“Like I said,” he sneered and posed with a bit of a flourish, “ _I’m boring._ ”

Cecil looked down at his shoes. “I’m very sorry you feel that way.”

He sighed. His heart trembled. He steadied it by finishing his drink.

“Even though…oh, what did you say, um…’nova’…?”

“ _Nihil novi sub sole_ ,” he said quickly to the rim of his glass.

“Yes, that. In spite of that, you keep trying.” He leaned back in his seat. “You’ve not given up this mission of yours to fix what is broken. The work you do is noble, doctor. Your heart is very much in the right place. It is planted right in your chest, and that’s all we can ask for.”

He found himself chuckling at this. This blossomed into a proper laugh that shook his shoulders and left a tear in his eye. “Wow. Well, that certainly is a way to say it.”

“There it is,” he said.

Arcade blinked.

Cecil was squinting his eyes a bit at him. “No, _there_ it is.”

The laugh tugged at the corners of his mouth again, and he almost shouted at him. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“I’m trying to decide the face of yours that I like the best.”

Cecil smiled. His expression was always plain to read, yet exciting every time. How did he do that? Was there a science to it?

“I want to know everything about you, Cecil,” he said. “I need the whole story.”

“It’s all a work in progress, Arcade.”

Someone in the lounge struck a jackpot and met an enthusiastic flurry of cheers. One Garret twin was asleep, the other had gone to reward the winner. The stage was empty; the show was long over. As far as they were concerned, none of these people existed. They were the only two people in Freeside, in the desert, in the world.

But that wasn’t true. There’d been other couriers - other men. Somehow Cecil managed to be one of a kind. So where did that leave him?

Arcade suddenly caught his head in his hands, heavy with words. “What did you want with _me,_ ” he said, rhetorical, and he drew the last word out as he bemoaned his place in the physical realm.

And yet Cecil answered, his syrupy voice leaving every word dripping with purpose. “I want you to come with me.”

Arcade turned his eyes to him. Cecil rose from his seat. Their eyes spoke their own language, and he followed Cecil to their shared room. He moved lithely and deliberately. All Arcade could do was follow.

“If,” Cecil said, his voice a ghost, “if at any point you don’t want to be here, you are free to leave. But I would rather you stay. There are so many things we can do together, doctor.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve done this.”

Cecil’s breathing caught, and a comforting look washed over his face. He had the look of home, but a home he’d never been to.

Arcade knew then that it was far too late for any other options to present themselves; he would follow this courier anywhere.

He blinked slowly and resolved to approach him. Heat rose to his cheeks. He felt his glasses steaming, but there was nothing he could do – his faculties were occupied, he was set in motion. And Cecil, _Cecil_ , this man who should not have survived what he did, who could not have survived half of it without him, who should never be apart from him again – Cecil was waiting for him.

Arcade considered a handful of facts, but they were bowled over one after another as the inches between them closed. Cecil didn’t flinch as his approached. An ache, a pain, a _wanting_ sang through his marrow louder than any intrusive thought ever had and his lips were upon his and they were kissing.

Cecil’s hands were on the small of his back – silent, but saying so much by their grip. Arcade let them press a conversation into his most vulnerable parts. Their chests were firmly against each other and it was soft and it was grounding and through the film of emotion, Arcade was aware of a shared, racing pulse. There were hushed gasps for air when their lips parted – Cecil was kissing him back, oh gods – and there were whisper-like sounds from the rubbing of fabric, and there was a _click_ whenever their glasses made contact, the single illusion-breaking reminder that they were two separate beings.

Time, factually, never slowed. Moments are not an accurate unit of measure. Saying a given moment was longer than another was a fallacy, and he knew this, but for a long moment, Arcade kissed the courier.

He was swooning and aching but his body felt lighter than ever, like Heaven and Earth were warring over where he should stand. His own fingers were pressing into Cecil’s back, grasping at his suit. His hands stayed in this way for so long that his knuckles began to tremble.

When he loosened his grip, he found there was an absence of air in his lungs. Cecil blinked as if moonstruck. His eyes came into focus. Even at this distance, Arcade could not tell what colour they were.

He pressed his forehead to Arcade’s. “Is this alright?”

Nothing had been so poetic.

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of things:  
> \- If you’re more aware of one canon than another, Cecil makes a living out of not being able to shut up and Arcade is the human form of that “you must be at least a level 4 friend to unlock my tragic backstory” post. Some of Arcade’s dialogue is pulled directly from the game, with liberties taken to his body language (since the emoting animations are very limited).  
> \- Arcade is one of 8 companions, characters who follow the player character around and offer support. In addition to fighting by the player’s side, Arcade boosts the effects of all health sources and is trained in heavy armour. He is most definitely a Strong Boy  
> \- I had a dream once where the Wild Wasteland perk was acknowledged in-verse as “wasteland weirdness,” a vague form of psychosis. For the unaware, all it does in-game is add silly pop culture references and alien attacks.  
> \- In Fallout: New Vegas, the player character is a courier who was robbed and shot in the head by the man in the checkered coat before the game even starts. Whoa! Who? What?! Play FNV  
> \- In Welcome to Night Vale, Cecil loves scientists and is hinted to have had a fling with the inventor of radio himself. Whoa! How? What!? Listen to WTNV  
> \- Both of these characters are canonically gay and live in deadly, deadly deserts. It’s a match made in heaven. Maybe.


End file.
